Poseidon sat upon the jagged shore, the salt-laden breeze tugging at the tangled wreckage caught in his seaweed-matted hair. His trident lay discarded at his side, its once-glorious prongs now dull as the sun dipped below the horizon. The waves lapped at his feet, as if mocking their lord, each retreating tide whispering the name of the mortal who had bested him.

Odysseus. That cunning wretch.

Poseidon’s broad shoulders sagged under the weight of a bitterness he had never known, his gaze fixed upon the frothing surf as though searching for an answer among the ceaseless churn. How could a mere man, bound by flesh and fate, defy the will of a god? His fingers dug into the damp sand, trembling with frustration, shame, and something he dared not name—respect for the mortal who had dared to defy him.